


Contagion

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of Death, hints of animal testing, infectious disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2623208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a Government Minister dies in curious circumstances, Mycroft sends Greg and Sherlock to investigate. When an infectious disease is discovered, Mycroft is forced to quarantine the village, knowing it may mean the deaths of both his brother and his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Days One And Two

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [30 Moments: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/817995) by [rz_jocelyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rz_jocelyn/pseuds/rz_jocelyn). 



> All three chapters of this have been written, so you won't be waiting long for updates.  
> Background Johnlock if you squint. Or just Johnlock friendship otherwise. Also lots of Lestrade/Sherlock friendship, because that is very important to me.  
> Set after season three I suppose, but really it could be set at any time.  
> The science in this is probably awfully iffy, but hey, it's the concept that's important, not the science.  
> I think that's all you need to know...  
> Inspired by a line in 30 Moments: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade by rz_jocelyn: http://archiveofourown.org/works/817995

DAY ONE

“Shit!”

Greg’s alarm had either not gone off or he had slept right through it. Either way, he was running late for work. He shoved a slice of toast in his mouth, toeing on his shoes. He grumbled around the bread as he heard his phone ring, and he put the food down on the side as he hunted around to find his mobile.

It was buried under stacks of paperwork. It was a good job it had rung, or he would probably have gone to work without it.

“Yep?” he answered, taking a long gulp of now-cold coffee. He pulled a face. “Uch.”

“Good morning,” Mycroft replied, too brightly for Greg’s liking. “Are you still at home?”

“Yup.”

“Ah. I won’t keep you long then. It’s probably for the best anyway, as they’re not expecting you at the Yard today.”

Greg frowned. “Why’s that?”

“I need you to go on an errand.”

“An errand,” Greg repeated. He knew Mycroft’s errands. They usually involved babysitting Sherlock somewhere in the country and somewhere ‘not dangerous’ which ended up being a lot more ‘exciting’ than it should have been.

“A senior Government minister has been found dead in a remote village in Yorkshire,” Mycroft explained. “I was due to meet with him, but I have been called to another meeting. I would normally have gone anyway, to pay my respects to his wife. But Sherlock has been selected in my place to investigate his rather sudden death and I wondered if you would… well…”

“Babysit?” Greg finished for him.

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, quite honestly.”

“So I’m driving to Yorkshire?”

“Yes please.”

Greg rolled his eyes. At least he said please. “I take it I need to give your brother a lift too?”

“If you would.”

Greg snorted. “You knew I would before you even picked up the phone. Alright then. But you owe me dinner.”

“I owe you many dinners,” Mycroft replied.

“Yeah, you do,” Greg said with a grin. “I want to go to that steakhouse that does that amazing surf and turf. And then back to yours for dessert.”

“Consider it already in my diary.”

“Then I’ll see you when I’m back.”

“I look forward to it already.”

Greg laughed. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“If you would. Sherlock is expecting you in the next hour. Take care.”

“Have a great day,” Greg said as he hung up. He rolled his eyes to himself and headed to his bedroom to pack a bag with enough stuff to last a couple of days.

He turned on the news as he pulled out a suitcase and started to grab some suits and less formal wear.

“The news of the Minister’s death has caused shock and sadness throughout the Government, with members of all three political parties expressing their condolences to his family,” the reporter on the TV said. “They have paid tribute to his willingness to always go the extra mile for his constituents. Speaking earlier, the Prime Minister had this to say.”

“He was a very thoughtful individual,” the Prime Minister said. “He cared a lot about his constituents, and of course, his family. He was a superb minister and the kind of politician everyone aspires to be. It is a great tragedy, and I’m sure that’s a sentiment which will be shared by both the Labour party and the opposition, and indeed, all who were fortunate enough to know him.”

Greg switched the TV off, heading out with his case to pick Sherlock up from Baker Street. It was a cool day but the trees were perfectly still. He listened to the radio on the way, catching up on the news of the Minister’s death.

It seemed a very strange situation indeed that he and Sherlock were the ones being sent to see what was going on, which made Greg wonder about everything Mycroft hadn’t told him.

He never expected Mycroft to tell him everything. It was one of the things he liked about him - his ability to always keep Greg on his toes. Of course, it could be equally infuriating at times.

They had been seeing each other on a sexual basis for just six months, though they had danced around the subject for much longer than that. Slowly and steadily, they’d formed a good team, both professionally and semi-romantically.

Sherlock was already on the pavement, bouncing on his toes when Greg picked him up. He dumped some bags and boxes onto Greg’s back seats and sat down in the passenger seat.

“No John?” Greg asked, surprised.

“It’s a highly-classified situation,” Sherlock replied. “He’s not invited.”

Greg frowned. “Surprised you didn’t refuse to go unless John was allowed too.”

“He also has work,” Sherlock conceded. “Apparently this would be one trip too many for his boss to accept.”

Greg laughed. “So, come on then. Why’s Mycroft got us going up to Yorkshire?”

“He suspects the Minister was murdered. He was a relatively healthy man with a number of enemies. Mycroft suspects he was poisoned. Hence the boxes.”

Greg frowned. “Why, what’s in them?”

Sherlock smiled. “Supplies. Remind me to take them back to Bart’s when we get home.”

“Oh God, you didn’t steal them did you?”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “Do you want me to answer that question or shall I stay quiet?”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “Best you stay quiet to be honest,” he muttered.

It took around four hours to drive to the remote village of Low Row, with its old stone houses set inside looming green hills and a river.

“It’s a small village, just one road,” Sherlock said, checking his phone. “The Minister has a home here and visited to give a speech to the villagers. Apparently the farming community wanted more support from the Government so he went to talk to them. A day later, he fell ill. And then he was dead. The body’s already been taken to Baskerville, but they’ll be sending me the results when they come in.”

“So, why the boxes?” Greg asked.

“For collecting evidence. But I believe they’ve also left me some samples to carry out my own experiments.”

“Samples?”

“Blood.”

Greg pulled a face as he parked outside the B&B they were staying in. “Looks nice,” he remarked, gazing up at the building as he turned off the ignition and got out of the car.

He and Sherlock checked in and carried their bags up to their rooms before heading straight for the Minister’s house. They were let in by his wife, a tall woman with stark make-up. She’d been crying, but she’d done a lot to cover it up.

She made them each a cup of tea as they sat down in her living room. She wrung her hands together, frowning down at her knees.

“Is there anyone you want with you?” Greg asked. “This isn’t an interrogation, I just want to ask you some things about your husband.”

“No,” she murmured. “We had one son together, but he’s at university in America. He’s on his way back but it may… well, it takes some time.”

“If you need anything, just say.”

“Thank you,” she said, coughing a little into her hand. “What exactly did you need to know?” she asked. “I already spoke to the police when they came to take…” Her voice shook as she trailed off. “Came to take his body,” she finally finished.

“How long was he ill for?” Sherlock asked.

“Perhaps two days. He had a mild cough when he went to speak at the village hall. It was so well attended. But he’s been ill on and off all year. He has been exhausted, with the election coming up and everything.” She sighed. “A day later, the coughing got worse. He had a fever. The next day, he began to spit blood and I’d called a doctor, but just an hour later, he was dead.”

“Coughing isn’t a very common side-effect of poisoning,” Sherlock said. “But if he was ill, it could have sped up the-”

“-You think he was poisoned?” the wife interrupted.

Greg glared at Sherlock before turning to the Minister’s wife. “We just want to check every avenue. We were sent by someone who is very concerned about what happened, and he just wants to ensure a very thorough investigation.”

She nodded. “I don’t know what else to tell you. We weren’t threatened. We just came here to escape for a few days.”

Greg stood up. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said.

Sherlock walked out of the room without a word and Greg followed him.

“For God’s sake,” Greg muttered as they closed the front door.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “Does it matter if she knows we’re looking for poison? It’s either there in his body, or it’s not.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg replied, storming away from him.

“Where are you going?”

“The pub!” Greg called back. He found himself nursing a glass of coke while he ate a burger and chips for lunch.

Afterwards, he spent some time talking to the locals about the meeting at the village hall. It appeared the Minister was a well-liked man who gave a lot of time to his constituents. Those in the farming community were less impressed with his efforts of late, but Greg was told that his talk at the hall had eased some of their concerns.

He went back to the B&B to find Sherlock. He was sat at a desk in his room, eye glued to a microscope lens.

“Anything?” Greg asked.

“Nothing yet,” Sherlock replied, turning to look at him. “I’ve tested for the most obvious poisons and there’s nothing here. Mycroft is going to call in 15 minutes.”

Greg sat down on the edge of the bed. “He’s got people working on this too, right?” he asked.

“Of course he has. But Mycroft doesn’t trust them. Corruption can run deep. If the man’s killer has paid the doctors to ignore the evidence…”

Greg snorted and shook his head. “Never had Mycroft down as a conspiracy nut," he said.

“How well do you really know my brother?” Sherlock asked. He held his hand up before Greg had a chance to reply. “And I don’t mean your arrangement. Just how much has he told you?”

Greg frowned a bit. “I don’t… well, I don’t know, do I? I know enough.”

“Enough,” Sherlock repeated, turning back to his microscope. “Enough to keep you quiet. Enough to stop you from asking questions. Enough to keep you at arm’s length.”

Greg bit his bottom lip. “Why are you saying it like that?”

“Because Mycroft doesn’t do relationships and you are an exception.”

Greg shrugged. “I just got lucky.”

“You just caught him on a good day.”

“He must have had a lot of good days, Sherlock, because he’s not left me yet.”

“Yet.”

Greg glanced down at his knees and then looked up as Sherlock’s laptop began to ring. Sherlock answered the call and Mycroft’s face filled the screen. Greg stood up to stand over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Mycroft looked between them. “Good afternoon. Any news?” he asked.

“I haven’t found a poison yet,” Sherlock informed him.

“Nor have we,” Mycroft said. “You tried all the obvious ones, I presume?”

“Yeah. There’s a few other things I can test for here, but I’ll run out of samples soon.”

“How many more tests can you do?”

“Four.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can have more samples sent to you.”

“I want his medical notes.”

Mycroft frowned a bit. “They won’t be easy to acquire.”

“Don’t lie for Lestrade’s sake,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Very well,” he said. “I will have everything sent by helicopter. You can expect all you need by first thing tomorrow morning. Have a very good evening, Greg. Sherlock.” Mycroft ended the conversation and Greg sighed, checking his watch.

“I’m going to go for a wander around,” Greg said. “Are you joining me?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, shut down the laptop and began to look through his evidence bags. With a sigh, Greg turned and left him to it.

 

DAY TWO

The phone rang. Mycroft was sat up in bed within six seconds, reaching over to retrieve it. He checked the number. Desk seven, it said on the screen. Stewart Boyce, one of Mycroft’s staff, sat at desk seven. Duties included the monitoring of Members of Parliament. He was currently on duty, and therefore covering the night shift. He was calling Mycroft directly, not following protocol, so Mycroft had to assume it was an urgent matter. Mycroft hit the accept button.

“Mr Holmes,” Stewart said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Mycroft lied easily. Though Stewart sounded tired. It was likely to be his first night on that shift and so he was struggling to get into the swing of the new routine. “What is the purpose of your call?” Mycroft asked.

“I. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Mycroft frowned, reaching over to turn the light on. He closed his eyes before he flicked the switch, allowing his eyes to get used to the brightness. “What happened?” he asked.

“An alert came through on the email monitoring system. It came from Baskerville.”

Mycroft frowned, squinting into the light. “What was the code?”

“It just said ‘contagion’,” Stewart said. “It was an orange alert.”

“I am not to be woken for anything other than a red alert,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes to himself.

“I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I wouldn’t have called. Except that the alert told me to call-”

“-The Minister For Health,” Mycroft finished for him. “Who is dead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Boyce,” Mycroft said. “I need you to respond to the alert so the person who sent it knows it has been read and understood. You will continue to monitor the situation and decrease the alert number to 51.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“The alert number currently stands at 65. That means my office only receives orange alerts. I want you to decrease it to 51 so we also receive yellow alerts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how to do that, Mr Boyce?”

“I do.”

“The clearance code is Trafalgar.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I will be in the office in…” Mycroft checked the time on his phone. “46 minutes. Please ensure that the job is complete by the time I get there.” He hung up the phone and sent a wordless text to let a driver know he was getting up.

He slid out of bed, padding over to his en-suite bathroom. His routine never changed, no matter what time he was woken. He slid his dressing gown off, hanging it on the back of the door. He stepped into the shower, took three minutes to wash his hair and body and allowed himself another two minutes to enjoy the warmth and the steam.

He brushed his teeth, shaved and sprayed his aftershave. And then he dressed. He chose a red tie, matched with his pocket handkerchief. He assessed himself in the mirror and then went to the kitchen.

One espresso later, he wandered out of the building and down towards the car. He slid in, picking up the first of the 12 newspapers on the seat beside him. They were the first editions. In many cases, they were the first newspapers off the press.

His eyes skimmed over the front page of The Times and then the Financial Times. Most of the news was dominated by the death of the Minister For Health. The Daily Star focused on the television show Big Brother instead. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. He put it down and turned to his phone.

There were 32 new emails, all of which had come in since he last checked his mail at 10.32pm last night. Only two emails had been marked by Anthea as being critical.

One was a briefing document for a meeting with the Deputy Prime Minister at 9am. The other regarded tank movements in South Korea. For the last five minutes of his journey, he sat back in his chair and considered the day ahead.

There were five key things he needed to concentrate on today. His meeting with the Deputy Prime Minister, tank movements in South Korea, the death of the Minister For Health, continuing negotiations over oil with delegates from Kazakhstan and the small matter of letting Sherlock loose on a case on his behalf.

He used his card to get into the building and nodded his head to the security staff. “Good morning Mr Holmes,” they greeted.

“Good morning, Mrs Lewis. Mr Ahmed. Thank you.”

He took the lift to the top floor of the building and strolled in. He pushed the door to the offices open with the tip of his umbrella. Stewart Boyce was sat at desk seven. He turned as soon as Mycroft entered the room.

“Forty-six minutes exactly,” Mr Boyce marvelled.

Mycroft allowed a small smile. “Any further alerts?” he asked, walking over to him.

“Six yellow alerts, but nothing from Baskerville.”

Mycroft nodded. “Has Baskerville made any further contact?”

“No, sir.”

“Show me.”

Mr Boyce brought up the office’s monitoring and alert system on his computer screen. Mycroft leaned on the desk, studying it.

“Show me all of yesterday’s alerts,” Mycroft requested. He rarely studied the system. He usually waited for someone else to send important reports directly to him.

Mr Boyce changed the screen.

“Two orange alerts in total,” Mycroft murmured, scrolling through it. “Is that usual?”

“Yes, sir. Fewer than usual, perhaps.”

“One red alert, of course. The death of the Minister. When was the last time Baskerville sent any alert above a yellow?”

“Never since I’ve worked here, sir,” Mr Boyce said. “Well. The last time an orange alert came from Baskerville was when your brother…”

“Say no more, Mr Boyce,” Mycroft warned. He took command of the keyboard, typing ‘Baskerville’ into the search bar and casting his eye over every alert ever sent from the research facility in the past 12 months. The orange alert was indeed unusual, but not enough to merit his immediate attention. Yet.

Mycroft stood up straight. “Thank you,” he said to Stewart. “You did the right thing in calling me. When does your shift finish?”

“In an hour, sir.”

“Please inform whoever takes over to continue to monitor the situation. All alerts from Baskerville must be sent to me immediately. Thank you for your efforts this evening, Mr Boyce.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stewart whispered, his cheeks visibly turning a pale shade of pink. Mycroft turned and left the main office, opening the door to his own room and closing it behind him.

He printed out the briefing documents for his meeting with the Deputy Prime Minister and began to read through them.

The alert popped up on his screen at the same time as the banging on his door started. Mycroft looked up from his paperwork.

_Red alert: Contagion._

_Time sent: 8.12am._

_Sender: Baskerville._

_Inform: Mycroft Holmes. The Minister For Health._

“Come in,” Mycroft called, and looked up as Anthea opened the door.

“Red alert?” she questioned.

“Yes. Baskerville.”

“I’ve put the calls in,” she told him. “I’ve informed the Deputy Prime Minister. In the circumstances, I felt a second party should be informed.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft said. He clicked on the message on his screen. Data began to scroll past the screen.

_Contagion information: Unknown._

“How many times have we have a red contagion warning from Baskerville?” he asked her.

“In the past five years, there have been three. The first was a computer error by a scientist. He intended to send a yellow warning. No infection. The second was a fault in the machinery. The third was the mis-application of Anthrax. They were all red alerts.”

“Three errors too many,” Mycroft murmured.

Anthea nodded and left the room. Two minutes later, and the office assistant brought Mycroft some tea. He closed his computer down while he enjoyed it in silence.

He sat contemplating the reality of a serious disease being unleashed on Baskerville - or indeed, any other facility in the country. There were procedures in place, and he spent two minutes in his mind palace familiarising himself with them. With that done, he opened Skype and called Sherlock.

Sherlock was sat on the bed. Shirt rumpled, hair askew, left eye twitching a little. He hadn’t slept. Experimenting all night.

And there was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Dressed and already eaten breakfast. Bacon sandwiches, judging by the small grease stain on his shirt collar.

“The helicopter’s not coming with the medical notes and samples,” Mycroft informed them.

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“We’ve had a red alert from Baskerville. No one leaves or enters it until the origin of the alert is known.”

“Red alert?” Greg asked. “What does that mean?”

“You might as well pack to leave,” Mycroft said, ignoring the question. “There is nothing more for you to do there. You could go directly to Baskerville if you wish, Sherlock, to look at the body, but I expect the case is over.”

“You just enjoy wasting my time,” Sherlock huffed.

“My one aim in life,” Mycroft muttered sarcastically, taking a slow sip from his tea. “I will see you for dinner this evening, Greg.”

Greg smiled. “See you later,” he said.

After ending the call, Mycroft packed a briefcase and attended his first meeting. It was with the Deputy Prime Minister, and it proved to be productive.

Mycroft was certain they both believed they had the upper hand. Mycroft knew it was him who had really come out with the victory. He already understood what made the man tick (education reform, more funding for medical research, a secret mistress on the side). He was easy to read. An obvious liar. He’d been successful in politics because he was a useful ally. And he was a useful ally because he was pathetic. Weak and easily manipulated.

Mycroft returned to his office and checked his emails, drinking his tea and enjoying some sandwiches for lunch. His red phone rang and he picked it up, leaning back in his chair. “Hello?”

“I have the director at Baskerville on the phone,” Anthea informed him. “May I put her through?”

There would finally be an answer about the situation at Baskerville, and that would be a third matter crossed off Mycroft’s agenda, after Sherlock and the Deputy Prime Minister. And it wasn’t even 1pm. What a wonderful start to the day. “Certainly.”

There was a pause and then a woman spoke. “Hello, Mr Holmes?”

“Miss Lawrence, what can I do for you?” Mycroft asked. 

“There’s no time to be pleasant, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I have… The Minister For Health. His body was brought here for testing.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “What did you find?” he asked.

“I think. I think in a way he might have been poisoned.”

“Explain.”

“We need to shut down the facility, Mr Holmes,” she said, her voice shaking. “And the village his body was found in.”

Mycroft took only half a second to digest the information, putting his cup down in the saucer. “I will make those decisions, Miss Lawrence,” he said tightly.

“He had the pneumonic plague, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft frowned a bit.

One of three forms of plague, a severe lung infection. Spread by the inhalation of the bacteria or through the bloodstream. Treatable with antibiotics. Threat level red, certainly. But not disastrous.

“Dangerous, certainly,” he murmured. “We will of course put a quarantine in. But it’s treatable. How long will it take you to send antibiotics to the village?”

“In 1995, scientists discovered a form of the plague in Madagascar which was immune to our treatment,” Miss Lawrence’s voice shook. “Mr Holmes… It. This. We can’t treat this. Not yet.”

His chest tightened. Sherlock. Greg. Both were potentially in danger, and he saw it in an instant. He had to prevent people from leaving or entering the village, lest it spread. And pneumonic plague would spread so easily, through the air from just a cough. Just a cough... “Shut Baskerville,” Mycroft ordered. “No one goes in. No one goes out.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. And the village?”

Not her problem. “Begin working on a treatment immediately,” he said instead.

“We are already working on it.”

“Work harder,” Mycroft ordered.

“We will send antibiotics via helicopter, but we can’t guarantee their effectiveness. They may buy us time.”

“Then send them immediately,” Mycroft said, before slamming down the phone.

He rang for the Prime Minister, bypassing pleasantries and assistants. He had only done that three times since the man had been elected. Both had been for terrorist attacks. This was potentially far more lethal.

“We need to shut off the entire village,” Mycroft said evenly. “Or every person in this country is at risk of this disease.”

“What do you suggest?” the Prime Minister asked.

“An armed cordon around the area. They will need to be equipped with protective clothing and apparatus. They may need to prevent small riots, though the village’s population is small. It should be containable but we have to act fast.”

“How fast?”

“I advise that you give the order immediately, sir.”

Within 10 minutes of the phone call, the Prime Minister advised that the army was on its way.

Mycroft dropped his head into his hands.

* * *

Greg wandered out to where his car was parked, just outside the B&B. He heard the propellers overhead and looked up at it. An army helicopter? Here? The helicopter began to land.

Greg wandered towards it, frowning.

“Come no closer,” an order came over a tannoy.

Greg paused. Stared. What the hell was going on?

“Come no closer,” the order came again. “Turn around and go back into the village.”

Greg frowned, blinking when he saw a gun pointed in his direction out of the helicopter door. He held his hands up before turning and beginning to march back. He broke into a run, storming back inside the B&B.

“Sherlock!” he shouted out as he ran up the stairs to their rooms. He opened Sherlock’s door. “There’s loads of army…”

Sherlock stared up at Greg, turning his attention from the laptop. His face was grave. “We’re on lockdown,” Sherlock said. “The Minister died of a mutated form of pneumonic plague. And we could all be infected.”

Greg stared at him. “Plague?”

“Yes.”

“Um. So… what? We’re gonna get… black pus?”

“No," Sherlock replied, barely suppressing his eye roll. "That’s the bubonic plague. This is the pneumonic plague.”

Greg blinked. “What. What does that mean?”

“The mortality rate for untreated pneumonic plague approaches 100 per cent,” Sherlock said. “They don’t have a cure for this strain of the disease.”

Greg tilted his head. “But… what… we’re stuck here?”

“Yes.”

“Mycroft-”

“-Gave the order to close the village,” Sherlock finished. “Quarantine. He did the right thing.”

“Am I. Are we gonna…?” Greg couldn’t even complete that sentence.

“The Minister’s wife had a cough. Chances are she was infected and passed it on to us. We can’t leave.”

“We’re going to die here,” Greg said numbly as he slumped down onto the bed.

“Mycroft is working on it. If anyone can sort it out, it’s Mycroft. Otherwise, yes. We will die here. Cheer up, Lestrade. Your parents are dead and you don’t have children. It could be worse.”

Greg stared at him. “Worse?” he repeated.

“I now have to endure hours of my parents trying to understand why Mycroft let me die from pneumonic plague.”

“He didn’t… he didn’t _let_ anything happen.”

“Yeah, but I’m the favourite, our parents won’t see it that way.”

Greg rubbed his face, a deep frown between his eyes. “I feel fine,” he muttered. He slammed the palm of his hand down on the bed. “I _feel fine_.”

“So do I.”

“He’s just gonna… just gonna let us stay here to catch it?”

“We may already be infected. Chances are, we are already.”

Greg shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “No fucking way. I am not dying here.”

“You can’t leave.”

“Like hell I can’t!” Greg yelled, standing up.

Sherlock shrugged a bit and turned to his computer.

“Why the hell don’t you care?” Greg snarled. “You’re just going to sit there until you get some disease and…” He couldn’t even say it.

“What else do you want me to do?” Sherlock asked, turning to face him. “Get angry? Try and escape and get shot by the army? No, I might as well try and do some work while I still can.”

“We’re both going to die.”

“Everybody dies.”

Greg shook his head. “Yeah, so? I wanted to be 90, with grandkids to my name and a bloody… fucking…" He threw his hands in the air. "I don’t even know.”

“Grandchildren?” Sherlock asked, turning to face him with raised eyebrows. “Why are you wasting your time with Mycroft?”

“Oh, don’t be such an arsehole, Sherlock.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Mycroft won’t want children," Sherlock said. "Your dream of dying at 90 with grandchildren is dead in the water before it even starts if you intend to spend your life with him.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t sodding matter now, does it?” Greg snapped at him. “You and me are gonna die here with each other. We’re going to cough up blood and die a slow and horrible death and then they’re going to come in, toss our bodies in a big pile and set us on fire.”

“Mmm. Probably.”

“I won’t. I can’t.” Greg punched the door, hardly noticing the pain in his knuckles. “I won’t fucking do it, Sherlock!”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Greg stared at him. They held each other’s eyes before Sherlock turned back to his laptop.

“The Minister had a very weak immune system,” Sherlock murmured. “We won’t die as quickly as he did. We have some time.”

Greg just shook his head and stormed from the room. He got back to his room and slumped on the bed. He checked his phone, but he had no messages. No one on his team even knew he was here.

He stayed in his room watching the news and the breaking stories about the quarantine. He watched it until he couldn’t bear it anymore. It was true then. They were stuck to die here of an incurable disease.

That night, he dreamed of holding his first born in his arms. Of rocking him to sleep, promising him he’d never want for anything.

When Greg woke with a start, with tears rolling down his cheeks, he wasn’t surprised.


	2. Days Three, Four And Five

DAY THREE

Mycroft handed over some money to the gay man with a beard behind the bar. The Bed and Breakfast near Baskerville was deathly silent. From beside him, Anthea stood reading the vegetarian menu.

“You’re in luck,” the man said. “We were fully-booked, but most visitors have gone home to be with their families. Panic, you see?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft replied, holding his hand out to take the room keys.

The man just kept talking. “Scary isn’t it, the infection stuff? But if we’re dead then we’re dead and there’s not a lot we can do now. What are you here for? To walk through the moors?”

“Just a short break,” Mycroft replied.

“You could do worse than to pop to the hollow… then there’s the-”

“-The keys,” Mycroft interrupted. “If you please.”

The man frowned at him before handing them over. “Suit yourself,” he muttered.

Mycroft handed one of the keys to Anthea and they made their way to their rooms.

“Have you spoken to him?” she asked.

Mycroft glanced at her. “Who?”

“To Greg?” Anthea pressed.

“No.”

“Mycroft…”

“He hasn’t contacted me either,” he reminded her.

Anthea reached her room, sighing. “I’ll meet you in half an hour,” she said.

Mycroft nodded and opened the door to his own room. It wasn’t up to his usual standards, but it would be good enough while he was here. He checked his phone. He knew Sherlock would have told Greg about the situation, but it was concerning that neither of them had made contact since.

He wasn’t surprised about the lack of contact from Sherlock. His brother would have accepted the prospect of his impending demise fairly easily. It wasn’t the first of his near-death experiences, though it was more than likely his last.

Greg on the other hand…

Mycroft frowned, opening the contacts on his phone to give him a call. He’d been trying not to think about him. He’d been trying to think of everyone in that village as unfortunate collateral. Lives that had to be lost for the greater good of the whole country and even, possibly, the whole world.

And it would have been very easy to think of it that way if Sherlock and Greg hadn’t been there.

Greg. Warm-hearted, generous Greg with his undying loyalty and good nature and good humour.

Greg, who saw children in his future, and marriage and grandchildren. Greg, who deserved far better than the cards he’d been dealt with a loveless marriage, a wife who cheated on him, a job with no prospect of promotion (mostly Sherlock’s fault) and to wind up in bed with a man who would not - could not - give him the life he craved.

Mycroft swallowed.

There was no denying that Greg set his body on fire. That Greg showed him what it was like to share a life with someone. Almost share a life with someone. Because Mycroft was not prepared to give so much of himself away.

Mycroft knew Greg would offer him everything. Mycroft would not do the same in return.

And yet. And yet. _And yet_.

The pain he felt at the prospect of Greg’s death was all-consuming. It made him feel sick. It made him want to fall to his knees and sob and curse the world and everyone on it.

It made him want to set fire to the whole universe.

He didn’t do anything. He simply didn’t have the time to be so… sentimental.

He erased Greg from his thoughts, tucked his phone away and wandered to Anthea’s room. They sat together at her desk, beginning a dialogue with the head of Baskerville.

“We have some medicine ready to send,” Miss Lawrence said. “We don’t know how successful it will be but… but, it’s ready to go.”

Mycroft nodded. “Enough for the entire village?” he asked.

“No. Definitely not.”

“Then how do we choose who gets it?”

“Those showing advanced symptoms are as good as already dead,” she said. “There’s plenty of painkillers and things in the kit to keep them comfortable but… but that’s it. Everyone still needs to be quarantined.”

“I’ll arrange the pick-up by helicopter,” Mycroft murmured. “Then we can parachute the medicine into the village. I’ll contact Sherlock so he knows it’s coming. Then he and Greg…” He sighed. “Then he and Greg are guaranteed the medicine at least.”

“It won’t be enough,” Miss Lawrence reminded him. “Not to cure them. It buys us time but that’s all.”

“I know,” Mycroft murmured. “Just keep working on a cure. Just do what you have to do.”

* * *

Greg stared from his window as Sherlock walked out into the street, his hand covering his mouth. He ran into the road, grabbing the wooden crate on the pavement before carrying it back into the B&B. Greg heard Sherlock’s heavy footsteps on the stairs and then the raps on his door.

“Bugger off,” Greg called out to him.

“Stop being a martyr,” Sherlock called back.

Greg rolled his eyes as he heard the scraping of something metal being pushed into the lock.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Greg pulled himself out of the chair, barging across the room to yank the door open. “Just get in here,” he muttered.

Sherlock smirked at him and carried the box inside. Greg shut the door behind him. “What’s this then?” Greg asked, watching as Sherlock lifted the lid.

“Supplies,” Sherlock said. He took out a piece of paper, his eyes skimming the words. He handed Greg a face mask before taking out a small box. “This is enough medicine for half the village. You and I will take ours first, and give it two hours before taking the rest to the village hall. From there, we will assess the least ill and who we will give the medicine to.”

Greg stared at him as he digested his words. Only enough for half the village. Then he and Sherlock were responsible for who lived and died and no. No. “Sherlock…” Greg shook his head. “No way. I can’t… no.”

“You have to,” Sherlock said, looking at him. “Some people are already sick. There’s talk around, people are tweeting about it. But some people aren’t sick yet, and we can stall the disease. But there’s not enough for all of them.”

“And for the people who are sick?” Greg questioned.

“We can make them comfortable with the rest of the medicine.” Sherlock took some medication bottles out, putting them down on the bed. “This is for us,” he said. “You’ll need the face mask.”

“How are you getting the message out?” Greg asked, frowning.

“Texts,” Sherlock said with a smile, taking out his phone. “It’s a small village, all I have to do is text a few key people and they’ll text everyone else in the village. Everyone knows everyone. Just be glad we’re not in a big town.”

“Oh, now I feel so much better,” Greg muttered, rolling his eyes.

“It’s good that we’re in charge of the medicine,” Sherlock said. “Because if you do die here, at least you will have done something to try and prevent it and not sat in here feeling sorry for yourself. Don’t be so self-pitying when you have the chance to actually do something. You like saving lives, right? That’s why you became a policeman? Then act like it.”

Greg frowned. Sherlock had a point, even if he didn’t like it. “Fine,” he conceded, rubbing his face.

Sherlock handed him a bottle. “These are your antibiotics. There’s enough in here to last nine days, more than enough time to get normal pneumonic plague out of your system. We don’t know about this specific strain of it though. You do realise this isn’t a cure?”

“I got it,” Greg said, reading the label before pouring a pill out into his hand. He held the bottle out. “Cheers then?” he muttered.

Sherlock managed a smile and tapped his own bottle to Greg’s. Greg swallowed the pill. Sherlock did the same and they stared at each other for a moment before turning their attention back to the crate.

“In two hours, yeah?” Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded and typed a message into his phone. “The message is out to get people there. Only those showing no symptoms or just a cough in the last 24 hours are told to come. I’ve had to lie. I’ve said it’s because those who are sick should get rest and not risk going outside.”

Greg shook his head and returned to the seat by the window. He continued to stare outside.

* * *

An hour later, he and Sherlock put on their face masks and took the medication to the village hall. They sat behind a table for the next four hours, serving a queue of surprisingly patient people. Sherlock assessed each person who came in. One nod meant Greg was to give them a bottle of antibiotics. Two nods meant they were to receive the same-looking bottle, but it would only contain drugs for the pain and the side-effects. If they had come for drugs for an ill family member, Greg would give them the painkillers.

No one was to know the medication was different. Everyone received a face mask.

It killed Greg to count the people he was sending to their deaths because there simply was not enough medication for them. By the time another box of medicine arrived by parachute, for many of them here, it would already be too late.

As they reached the end of the queue, the antibiotics were already gone. A healthy-looking man was left at the end and Greg handed him the painkillers. The man was last for no other reason except he wasn’t as well-connected in the village and had received a message later than everyone else.

Greg handed him a mask and the painkillers, knowing the man would live if he locked himself in his house and got lucky. Knowing that the antibiotics would not eradicate the disease completely, he knew the man would be lucky to get through the week.

He and Sherlock walked back to the B&B in silence. The army had taken a box of food supplies to every building. Greg and Sherlock ate their tinned fruit and ham, watching Top Gear on Sherlock’s laptop.

Greg knew Sherlock was more scared than he was letting on, because he didn’t make a scathing comment once.

 

DAY FOUR

When Greg woke up the next morning, he found he was still symptom-free. No coughing. No headaches. No nothing. He took his antibiotics as directed, watching out of the window.

Two people in full protective suits carried a stretcher out of one of the homes. A white sheet covered the body on top of it. So it had begun.

The elderly or those with weakened immune systems would be affected first, Greg knew. But it made his vision blur a little as he appreciated exactly what was happening around him. With a shake of his head, Greg shut the curtains and rubbed his face.

He tried to read. He tried to watch television. He tried to send some emails to a few friends. He tried to call Mycroft, his thumb hovering over the button he couldn’t bring himself to press.

At lunchtime, he knocked on Sherlock’s door. He let himself into the room. Sherlock was bent over his desk, eye to his microscope.

“What you doing?” Greg asked, taking a seat on the bed.

“Experiments.”

Greg tilted his head. “On what?”

“My blood.”

Greg sighed, staring down at his shoes. He was a tiny bit jealous that Sherlock had actually found something to do. “Can I help?” he asked.

“No.”

“Sherlock, come on. I’m dying too. At least let me be your assistant.”

“Fine. But don’t touch anything.”

Greg snorted. “What can I do then?” he asked.

Sherlock handed him a box. “There’s a sterilised needle in there. Prick your finger and give me a blood sample.”

“You’re not… you’re not seriously researching the disease are you?” Greg asked, staring at him.

“Do you really think I can do anything here that they can’t do at Baskerville?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head. “I’m just trying to fill the time. Now come on. Give me blood.”

Greg didn’t have the energy to fight Sherlock’s demands.

* * *

“It’s taking too long!” Mycroft snapped as he slammed his hand down on the table.

Anthea looked up from her laptop. “Seven confirmed dead,” she murmured. “But no one’s getting worse at the moment. The antibiotics are holding the disease off for now.”

“But there’s still no cure,” Mycroft muttered. He pushed his pasta around his plate with his fork.

He’d seen the emails being sent around Baskerville. He’d seen all the research on rats they’d infected with the mutated strain. The number of dead rats was steadily growing. And so was the number of dead humans.

“Sherlock and Greg are fine,” Anthea reminded him.

“For now.”

Anthea looked up at him. “Mycroft. Call him.”

Mycroft turned and stared out of the window. He just couldn’t do it, knowing he’d condemned him to death.

Greg had never asked for this life, though he’d been in trouble from the moment he’d encountered Sherlock and took him home to cure him of his drug habit.

For Mycroft, these horrible, awful emotions were ruining everything. Because all he wanted to do was drive into Low Row, drag Greg and Sherlock into a car and take them home as though he didn’t care how infectious the disease was. Even if everybody in the world died, at least he would have some final moments with…

He shook his head. No. It wouldn’t happen and he had to accept that now. All he could do was push the scientists to find a cure. It was out of his hands.

* * *

Greg was lying on his bed reading when Sherlock came in. Greg frowned at him as Sherlock shut the door, holding up a small see-through bag of…

Greg frowned. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, staring at him.

Sherlock nodded. “If you think it’s cannabis, then yes, you’re correct.”

“You bought cannabis?”

“No, I found it,” Sherlock said, carrying it over. “But I don’t know how to roll a joint.” He dumped the bag and a packet of rolling papers on the bed. “I assume you know how?”

Greg glared at him. “I’m not rolling you a joint.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not about to start giving you drugs.”

“Oh come on,” Sherlock insisted. “If I’m dying anyway, at least let me go out on a high.” Sherlock grinned. “Go on. You can have half of it.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Oh, now I’m _definitely_ giving in and giving you drugs,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Get out of here and take that with you.”

_“Lestrade_ ,” Sherlock whined. “Come on. It’s only cannabis. I couldn’t find any alcohol. I think someone’s hoarding it. But drugs, drugs are brilliant.” He nudged the bag towards Greg, staring at him with pleading eyes. “Come on.”

Greg glared at him. He glanced down at the bag. He had to admit, he was a bit tempted. “You got any tobacco?” he asked.

Sherlock’s face broke into a smile as he fished a packet of tobacco out of his coat pocket. He perched on the edge of the bed.

“Go get me something to lean on,” Greg muttered. “And I need to grind this weed down somehow.”

“Already sorted,” Sherlock said, handing him a green, plastic grinder. “You sprinkle it in there and turn the handle.”

“I know how the bloody thing works,” Greg muttered.

Sherlock left the room, leaving Greg to ponder why the hell he was doing this. _Because you’re dead anyway, you might as well have some fun_ , a voice said. He sighed. Ten minutes later and Sherlock returned with a tray to lean on. He sat down on the bed beside Greg, watching with interest as Greg began to grind the plant down.

He opened the Rizla packet, sprinkling in the tobacco and weed before rolling it up. Sherlock grinned and reached for it.

“Nope!” Greg said, holding it out of his reach. “I put the effort in, this one’s mine.”

Sherlock stared at him before breaking into an even bigger smile. “Oh, suddenly you are fun.”

Greg rolled his eyes and lit up. He leaned against the headboard, closing his eyes as he inhaled. After a while, he passed the joint to Sherlock, who hummed in delight.

After a few joints, they were both nicely strung out. They leaned side by side against the headboard.

“Kiss, kill or marry,” Greg said. “Brad Pitt, George Clooney or Matt Damon?”

“Who?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh for God’s sake…” Greg sighed. “Kill, kiss or marry. Isaac Newton, Peter Higgs or Brian Cox.”

Sherlock snorted before breaking into hysterical laughter. “Well, Newton’s dead. And a skeleton. Kiss Newton’s skull. Kill Higgs. Marry Brian Cox.” He grinned and nudged Greg. “Mary Watson, Molly and Mrs Hudson.”

“Sherlock! You can’t do it with people we know.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why not?”

“’Cause it’s…” Greg glanced at him. “Oh fine, but you can’t breathe a word of this. Kill Mary because she shot you. Kiss Mrs Hudson, marry Molly.”

Sherlock laughed.

Greg paused for a moment. “Sherlock. In all serious-seriousness. If I die first, I give you permission to experiment on my dead body.”

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes widening. “Really?” he asked, as though it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock beamed. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Greg burst out laughing, and Sherlock joined him. Soon they were laughing so hard that they were clutching their sides. Greg had tears rolling down his cheeks, his stomach painful.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes, once their laughter had died down.

“Yeah?”

“If we survive this, does the offer still stand?”

Greg frowned. “What offer?”

“That I can experiment on your body?”

“What, even if I die of old age?”

“Yeah.”

“What?” Greg asked, frowning. “No!” he exclaimed.

“What difference does it make?”

Greg snorted. “Well, I’d hope if I died here before you then you’d use my body to try and figure out how to save yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring.”

Greg shook his head and tilted his head back against the wall. “No, if we get out of this, I want to be cremated.”

Sherlock paused. “Can I experiment on you before you’re cremated?” he asked.

“I… well… hmm. Maybe. Possibly. I’ll have to think about it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “This is too maudlin even for me. Is there more cannabis?”

“Yeah, loads, let me just roll another joint.” Greg leaned forward and picked up the bag.

“Can I try?” Sherlock asked.

Greg stared at him. “All that cocaine and heroin and I can’t believe you’ve never done done cannabis before.”

“Roll-ups are too much effort,” Sherlock muttered. And then he turned to Greg, his eyes widening in realisation. “I can’t believe you _have_ done this before.”

“Oh, shut up,” Greg muttered, his cheeks going red.

“’Don’t take drugs, Sherlock’,” Sherlock mocked in Greg’s accent. “‘Drugs will kill you, Sherlock’. Hypocrite.”

Greg grinned at him as he handed Sherlock the grinder. “Smug bastard.”

“With good reason. What was it then? Just cannabis?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t into the hard stuff like you were.”

Sherlock nodded. “You were a rebel. Who knew?”

“I wouldn’t say I was a rebel.”

Sherlock laughed and followed Greg’s instructions as he told him how to roll the joint. “What were you then?” Sherlock asked as they exchanged the joint.

“I was one of the cool kids,” Greg said. They sat back and smoked, conversation beginning to die down. “Cheers, Sher,” Greg said after a while. “It’s been a good night, all things considered.”

Sherlock smiled at him, tucking the bag of cannabis into his pocket. “Goodnight,” he said, standing up and padding across the room.

Greg smiled to himself, lying down on his back. He fumbled around for his phone and called Mycroft.

“Greg,” Mycroft answered, some relief in his voice.

“Mmmm. Hey, you,” Greg said, smiling softly to himself. God, he’d missed him so goddamn much…

“You’re dru… are you drunk?” Mycroft asked.

“Hmmm. Nope.”

“High. You’re high. Have you had a bad reaction to the antibiotics?”

“What?” Greg frowned. “Oh. No, no. No. Me ‘n’ Sherlock found some weed. Well, he found it, I rolled it.”

“Oh for goodness sake. I thought you were a good influence on him.”

“I am!” Greg protested. “Was. Am. Are. I dunno. What’s happening? Have you got a cure?”

“Nearly,” Mycroft said.

“Really?”

“I… it’s early days.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Greg muttered. “Do not lie to a dying man, it’s not on.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg sighed and closed his eyes. “We never got that dinner,” he said. “Or that dessert.”

“We still might.”

“I’m bein’ realistic, My. Nah, it’s done. I’ve seen bodies being carried out and there’s smoke outside and… Fuck.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “God. I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

“Then don’t,” Mycroft whispered. “There’s still time, we still have time.”

“I coulda been so good for you, Mycroft. If you’d just given me a proper chance, I would have…”

“I know.”

They both paused, Greg gripping the phone to his ear. “Make them work,” Greg muttered. “Kick the arses of those scientists and get them working so hard that their ears bleed and their feet hurt. You’re Mycroft Holmes and there ain’t… there’s nothing you can’t do. ‘Cause me and Sherlock, neither of us are ready to bow out and we’re winning because we’ve got you on our side. So just… please just keep trying. Let’s get dessert, yeah?”

“We’ll have dessert,” Mycroft whispered.

“Goodnight, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

The phone went silent.

With the cannabis still in his system, Greg found it easy to sleep.

 

DAY FIVE

Mycroft wandered down to the bar, ordering a bowl of porridge. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach it, but he knew it was better than eating nothing. Adrenaline and food would be the only thing keeping him going until there was a conclusion to the matter one way or… well, the other unthinkable way. He frowned as he turned around to see John Watson sat at a table.

“Good morning, John,” Mycroft said, walking towards him.

John forced a smile as Mycroft sat down opposite him. “How are they?” he asked.

“Getting high together,” Mycroft replied, frowning.

John blinked. “Who’s getting high? Sherlock? Greg?”

“Mmm. Both. Apparently.”

John continued to stare in disbelief.

“Close your mouth or the bugs will fly in,” Mycroft muttered. John snorted and closed his mouth. “And they’re fine, otherwise,” Mycroft finished. “Alive. For now. But we have their blood samples being sent to Baskerville as we speak, they should be there in an hour and then we’ll find out.”

“I spoke to Sherlock this morning,” John said with a shrug. “He seems. Well. Upbeat. Too upbeat for someone stuck in the middle of that village.”

“Sherlock has a surprisingly comfortable relationship with death.”

“And Greg? How’s he doing?”

“Greg was smoking cannabis,” Mycroft muttered.

“Oh, good point.” John frowned. “ _Oh._ Good point.”

Mycroft sighed. “You really don’t need to be here, John. There’s nothing you can do for them.”

“I know. I know. But. Got to try and be somewhere I feel useful. I’ve spoken on Skype to Sherlock but it’s not exactly the same.”

“Mmm. I know.”

John shrugged. “You’ll sort it. I know you will.”

With the weight of expectation on his shoulders, Mycroft settled down with his laptop to find out about the latest research coming from Baskerville.

A presentation was being given in one of the lecture theatres, and he sat watching it. Or trying to. His mind had turned to Greg. Their first kiss. They’d been shouting at each other. Greg was screaming so loudly that his voice was going hoarse. Mycroft had rolled his eyes and turned his back to him. Greg had grabbed his wrist and slammed him into the wall.

By the morning, the fierceness of the encounter had sparked out. Greg lay in Mycroft’s bed, a sheet draped over his hips and barely covering him up. His smile was easy, a cigarette balanced between his fingers.

And god, those subsequent nights. Those meals spent debating the merits of everything from gun control and terrorism laws to drug regulation and alcohol pricing. And Greg’s mind was as open as his heart, and he’d let Mycroft into his life with barely a blink.

Mycroft could still remember that last night they’d spent together before all of this, and Mycroft said that this was all it was, just friends and sex and Greg had said… and Greg had said ‘hm. Yeah. Well, if that’s what it is to you, then I’ll live with it, because I want to be with you however I can be’. Mycroft had kissed him because… god, he didn’t want Greg to leave and he didn’t want him to die and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, bear it.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft turned his head to look at Anthea. “Hmm?” he replied.

He frowned as Anthea reached up, touching his cheek with her thumb. It came away wet. Mycroft could only stare at her for a moment before he wiped his face.

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes full of sympathy.

Mycroft shook his head. “He was all. He is.” Mycroft shook his head. “I’ve lost Sherlock so many times, I’m almost prepared for it, I know the steps and I know… But Greg. He deserves so much better.”

“Better than you?” Anthea finished for him.

Mycroft nodded.

“Maybe he just knows,” Anthea murmured. “That there is no better.” She squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder. “Maybe he knows you’re the greatest man he’ll ever meet.”

Mycroft shook his head. “He wants a home. And children and marriage and…”

“And you never for a moment believed you could have those things,” Anthea said. “But that doesn’t mean you should rule it out.”

Mycroft frowned at her.

Anthea shrugged. “I over-stepped.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

“I apologise,” she said.

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning back to the lecture.

* * *

Greg collected the crate from the road. He knew the body count was up to 26 now. He knew the young man at the back of the queue had died. By hook or by crook, he and Sherlock were alive. But the cough had started.

Sherlock’s cough came first. They’d stared at each other, not saying a word when it had happened. Greg’s first cough came four hours later.

Greg carried the box into Sherlock’s room and they opened each other’s envelopes with the results of their blood tests.

“You’re infected,” Sherlock muttered, reading the paperwork. “With the mutated strain.”

Greg nodded. “So are you,” he said, sinking down onto the bed.

“Strange,” Sherlock murmured. “I actually feel sad about it now. Those things you wanted, those children and grandchildren. I never contemplated it. Never…” He frowned and sat down at the desk. “Strange, isn’t it?” he said. “How you only want the things you never thought about when they’re taken away?”

Greg nodded in silence. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“At least we’re not alone, I suppose,” Sherlock continued with a frown. “While I was dismantling Moriarty’s web, I kept thinking how I didn’t want to die alone. So, I’m glad it’s you. John being here… it would be…”

“Too much,” Greg whispered.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” He paused before speaking again. “I approve.”

“Of what?” Greg asked.

“Your relationship with my brother. I approve of it.”

Greg smiled sadly at him. “I only wish your brother did,” he murmured. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Mycroft’s a fool,” Sherlock said. “He never sees what he has until it’s gone.”

Greg nodded silently. He stood up and walked to the window, staring out and watching the smoke rise above the houses. “How long have we got?” he asked.

“Once the mutated strain takes over, it can be days,” Sherlock said.

Greg nodded. “You got a pen and paper?” he asked. “I’m gonna write a letter.”

“To who?”

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock nodded and ripped a page out of his notebook, passing it over. “Will you do me a favour?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, what?”

“Write something to John for me. Say something… kind. Pretend I said it.”

Greg shrugged and smiled at him. “’Dear John, I love you?’”

Sherlock paused, mulling over the words for a second before speaking. “Hm. Yes. That would do I suppose.”

Greg shrugged and got up from the bed. “You can write that yourself,” he said. He walked out of Sherlock’s room and sat down at the desk in his own room. He put some music on as he sat there, pen poised over the paper.

 

_~~Mycroft~~ ~~My~~ ~~Myc~~ ~~My~~ To Mycroft,_

_If you’re reading this, it’s cos I never had a chance to say ~~goodbye~~ all the stuff I wanted._

_But I wanted you to know I was yours. I was always going to be. Even if you didn’t want ~~half of~~ any of the things I wanted, then I was anyway._

_I wanted to tell you that I ~~cared a lot about you~~ loved you. I never did tell you and I wish I had. Cos you deserved to know._

_Always gonna. Til I take my last breath here, I always did._

_Don’t miss me too much, and be happy and find someone else. Think of me sometimes: I would like to be missed a little bit._

_I love you, you stupid bastard._

_Always yours,_

_Greg Lestrade._


	3. Days Six To Eleven

DAY SIX

Mycroft rubbed his face, trying to focus his eyes on the laptop screen. He hadn’t slept in 34 hours. John was snoring on the sofa in the bar, Anthea had taken herself to bed long ago.

Things were progressing at Baskerville, but ever since Sherlock and Greg’s blood results had been confirmed, all he could do was try to do some work and block it out. He knew they had very little time left. He was rehearsing a conversation with them both. His final conversation with Sherlock would be easy. They’d been there and done it before, a few times.

But Greg. Anthea’s words had struck so many chords with him, and he was devastated, knowing their time together had ended before he fully appreciated it. He should have been less afraid and more open with him. He should have given it a chance because they would have been so, so good…

He frowned as his phone rang. John stirred but didn’t wake up. Mycroft accepted the call. “Mycroft Holmes,” he murmured.

“Mycroft. It’s Olivia Lawrence from Baskerville.”

“Good evening?” Mycroft glanced at the window. “Morning?” God, he really was losing it.

“It’s 3am,” she said. “It’s morning. Got some news for you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Do tell.”

“We’ve developed a drug that’s effective at treating the mutated form of the disease in rabbits.”

Mycroft sat up straight. “What?” he asked. “Say that again.”

“It has been successful at treating rabbits,” she repeated. “But not mice, which are more genetically similar to humans. If we send them this treatment, and they take it, it may kill them.”

Mycroft didn’t take long to weigh up the options. “They’re already dying,” he murmured. “Send it. No matter what. Send it immediately.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

And that, just there, was Mycroft’s last smidgen of hope.

He called Sherlock, despite the early hour. His brother, unsurprisingly, was still awake. He looked exhausted, his brow sweaty. His voice was hoarse.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked.

“I’ve got about 24 hours,” Sherlock replied, not really answering the question. “What’s your news?”

“There are some drugs on their way to you,” Mycroft told him. “Effective at treatment in rabbits but not mice.”

Sherlock nodded. “Mice are more genetically similar to humans.”

“Quite.”

Sherlock bit his lip and shrugged. “When will they be here?”

Mycroft checked his watch. “In three or four hours.”

Sherlock nodded. “John there?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, looking around to where John was just waking up. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

He stood up, leaving John to continue the conversation with Sherlock. He wandered outside. He put his hands into his pockets, watching his breath float into the air. He stood still, staring up at the clear skies. Later, when Greg woke up, he’d have to find a way to say his final goodbyes to him. And he wasn’t ready for that. Not prepared to say goodbye. If only they’d had a bit more time.

These past few days had been far, far too much and he just…

He collapsed down to his knees on the damp grass, dropping his head into his hands. He knew some regrets were impossible to let go of. That his heart was breaking. And to live without Greg was… unacceptable. Painful.

He stayed outside until he was shivering. As though the cold could bring some relief.

* * *

Greg woke up at half six, feeling like death warmed up. It was coming, he knew. Some sort of ending to it all. He coughed into his hand before slumping back against the covers. He was shivering, sweaty, and everything ached. He reached for his jacket, pulling it on to get a bit more warmth. He touched his pocket where the letter to Mycroft was inside. He looked up as the door opened and Sherlock padded through, carrying his laptop. His face was pale and sweaty.

He put the laptop down on the bed. “Mycroft’s got some injections for us both,” Sherlock whispered, touching his throat. He put a box down on the bed. “They might work. If they work then… good. If they don’t work, they’ll kill us quicker than the disease will.”

Greg stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay,” he whispered back. He frowned as Sherlock’s laptop began to ring.

“S’Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, before heading for Greg’s en-suite. Greg winced as he heard Sherlock throw up into the toilet.

Greg sat up, turning the laptop so he could see the screen and Mycroft’s face. He looked exhausted. Absolutely shattered. Greg knew he didn’t look much better.

“Hi, you,” Greg murmured, forcing a smile the best he could,

“Hello.”

“Thanks for the injections.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am so sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “It should be me.”

“Don’t say that. I’m bloody glad it’s not you. I don’t have access to all the state secrets and Baskerville like you.”

“Did Sherlock tell you everything?”

Greg nodded. “He did.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty rough. Not gonna lie to you. But the drugs will help, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg tried to laugh but it broke into a cough. He rubbed his throat. “You’re usually such a good liar, Mycroft,” he muttered hoarsely.

“I can’t lie to you.”

“I know. Chances of the drugs working?”

“21 per cent. It’s more likely to kill you.”

Greg took a deep breath. “Quickly?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Greg’s shoulders slumped. “That’s a relief then.”

Mycroft simply nodded.

Greg swallowed. So much he wanted to say, but not like this. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. “Will someone collect our bodies?” he whispered.

Mycroft’s whole demeanour stiffened. “Don’t,” he said.

“Will they?”

“I-I don’t know what the arrangements will be.”

Greg frowned. “Only, I’ve got a letter, Mycroft. In my pocket. For you. Look, I just want to know that you’ll get it.”

“I’ll ensure that I do.”

Greg nodded. “Do,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “Please.”

“Greg-”

Greg held his hand up. “Don’t say anything else, yeah? Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want you to say it because I’m probably going to die.”

“That’s not-”

“-Mycroft.” Greg swallowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to be cruel. I just.” He sighed. “Sorry. I know this is probably the last time we’re going to talk. I wish I had the things to say to… but I don’t. I don’t do this.”

“No. Then listen to me.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “Make sure you both inject it properly. Lie down, relax and keep breathing. I will do everything I can for both of you.”

“I know,” Greg replied. “I know you will.”

“We’ll talk shortly,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded, knowing that was almost definitely not be true. “Of course. And get dessert.”

Mycroft nodded back. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes we will get dessert.” And the screen went black.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom minutes later, just as Greg was done blowing his nose. Sherlock’s face was set like stone. “Are you done?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“These drugs are likely to kill us,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I know.”

“It’ll be quicker than the disease.”

“Then that’s better.”

“I agree.”

Sherlock sat down on the side of the bed. Greg watched as Sherlock prepared the two syringes with shaking hands. Sherlock took his shirt off, sitting so Greg could reach his left arm.

“You need to get it here,” Sherlock said, pointing to the spot on his arm.

Greg nodded. “Lucky you’ve got such pale skin, hey?” Greg tried to joke. “Least I can see where I’m aiming.”

He’d never injected anyone before, but he almost certain he’d got it into the right place. He and Sherlock stared at each other as the clear solution was pushed into Sherlock’s bloodstream.

Minutes later, Greg offered his own arm and Sherlock took hold of the needle. His hand was shaking even more than it had been before. Greg frowned.

“Hey,” Greg said. “Hold still. We’ve only got one of these each and if you miss...”

“I’m aware. My hand won’t stop shaking.”

Greg rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “You can do this,” he said, holding his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s no good. I can’t.”

“Sherlock, your hands shook worse than this when you dosed yourself with heroin. I promise, you can get that into my vein.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. He nodded. “For Mycroft,” he whispered.

Sherlock took a deep breath and positioned the needle. Greg winced as it was pressed in.

“I got it,” Sherlock whispered.

They stared at each other before lying down on their backs beside each other on the bed. “Well then,” Greg murmured. “Been really good knowing you, Sher.”

He heard Sherlock’s soft chuckle beside him. “Liar,” he muttered.

“Never lied to you,” Greg whispered, closing his eyes. He swallowed as he felt Sherlock’s sweaty hand find his, gripping on tightly. “And I promise, you can have my body for science.”

“Well, isn’t that nice of you?” Sherlock murmured, but his voice was floating, disappearing, faint and… lost.

 

DAY EIGHT

Mycroft sat with his laptop in front of him, John and Anthea sat either side. The medical team in protective suits had cameras attached to their clothing and Mycroft had access to the live feed. The village was almost deserted, pitch black. Light only came from the torches carried by the medics.

They watched as the medics visited each building, carrying out blood tests on those who were still alive. Those no longer carrying the disease were taken out and were being transported to hospital. Most of them were carried, either in comas or barely functioning.

They carried out the bodies.

Anthea left the room then, unable to watch any more. She had seen worse, much worse, in her life but to see the bodies of those who had been sacrificed for the good of the country was one thing to many for her.

One of the medics entered the Bed and Breakfast.

Mycroft’s heart clenched when they reached Greg’s room. Greg and Sherlock were lying side by side on their backs on the bed, hands clasped together between them.

John’s chair legs scraped on the floor as he stood up, shaking his head and going to the bar to get a strong drink.

Sherlock’s chest was rising. And falling. “Sherlock’s alive,” Mycroft murmured, looking behind him.

He saw John’s shoulders shake.

Mycroft turned his attention back to the screen. The medic lifted Greg’s wrist. Mycroft felt his blood go cold. Greg’s chest wasn’t moving, not like Sherlock’s. “No,” he whispered. His bottom lip shook and he clenched his fists. “No, no.” He shook his head. “No.”

“Mycroft,” John murmured, walking behind him and touching his shoulder.

“No,” Mycroft said again, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh God. No.”

“Mycroft, hang on.”

But Mycroft shook his head. He couldn’t watch. He stood up, pushing away from John and storming through the Bed and Breakfast up to his room.

No. No.

No.

It was as though the world had shrunk. Everything spun. He dropped down beside the bed.

No. Greg. No.

He wouldn’t allow it.

He wouldn’t accept it.

He had no choice and no, no, no, no…

From his pocket, his phone beeped. With a shaking hand, he picked it up. It was from John.

_They’re both alive and being taken out now._

Mycroft stared at the words. Greg was alive.

With a shaking hand, he called from his driver. “Take me to Mid Yorkshire Hospital,” he murmured.

* * *

A wing of the hospital had been cleared for the victims of Low Row. No one was allowed in or out without wearing protective suits. Mycroft stood by the protected door, his hands in his lap. Other family members of the survivors were in waiting rooms.

A doctor approached him. “Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft lifted his head and nodded.

“Sherlock Holmes is in a stable condition. He’s in a medically-induced coma at the moment. We’ll start to wake him up in 12 hours.”

“And Greg Lestrade?”

“He’s in a coma. His lungs are very badly damaged. We’ve done all we can for him, we just have to wait now.”

Wait. Mycroft was through with waiting. “Thank you, doctor,” he whispered.

 

DAY NINE

Mycroft stared through the glass at the bed Sherlock lay in, his chest rising with every breath. Alive, but not yet out of the woods.

“He’s no longer infected,” Anthea said, falling into step beside him. “Thirty-seven people survived in total. Eleven of them are in a coma.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Mycroft asked.

“We don’t know,” she said. “It’s an experimental drug. They couldn’t predict what would happen. Sixteen of those who took it died within a few hours. Peacefully. Far more peacefully than they would have died from the disease.”

“And the village?” Mycroft asked.

“Burned. There have been no more cases reported anywhere. The hospitals are on high-alert but… nothing yet.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Have you seen Greg yet?” she asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “No.”

He frowned as Sherlock’s arm twitched. Anthea squeezed his shoulder. “That’s a good sign,” she whispered, nodding towards the bed.

Mycroft nodded. He turned his head to where John lay across six plastic chairs, fast asleep. “Wake him,” he whispered. “He will want to be here when Sherlock wakes up.”

Anthea nodded. “What will you do?” she asked.

“I need to find Greg.”

He waited at the glass until Sherlock’s eyes opened and he was able to say a few words to John. Mycroft left them to it and headed for Greg’s room.

Greg was still in a coma. He looked so peaceful, though there were dark rings under his eyes still.

Mycroft sat beside his bedside. For the first time in 13 years, he did no work. He didn’t even think about it. He just sat and waited and hoped, holding onto Greg’s hand.

 

DAY TEN

Mycroft stood by the window in Greg’s room. He didn’t look around as he heard Sherlock’s footsteps behind him. “You recovered quickly,” Mycroft murmured.

“I’m out of breath from walking this far,” Sherlock said, sinking into one of the chairs. “But yes. I understand I’m doing the best out of everyone.”

“You always were a medical marvel,” Mycroft said, turning to face him.

Sherlock smiled a bit. He turned to Greg and frowned. “How is he?”

“They don’t know if he’ll…” Mycroft swallowed and shook his head. “We’re still waiting.”

Sherlock nodded. “He was… useful to have around.”

“He always is.”

“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asked. “If he wakes up.”

Mycroft sat down in one of the other chairs, reaching out to brush his fingers against Greg’s knuckles. “How do you mean?”

“I found it easy to die. I’d done everything I ever wanted. He… hadn’t.”

“So I understand,” Mycroft muttered.

“He wants a family, Mycroft.”

“Yes. Yes, I know he does.”

“You should give him a chance, I think,” Sherlock said. “He’s good in a crisis. He’s… did you know he took cannabis as a teenager?”

Mycroft actually managed a smile at that. “I wasn’t aware, no.”

Sherlock grinned and shook his head. “Maybe if he wakes up, you should see this as a second chance.”

“In what way?”

“Did you get his letter?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I haven’t read it yet. I’m assuming he wrote it in the event of his death. It seems inappropriate to read it while he’s alive. Like an invasion of his privacy.”

“Read it,” Sherlock said. “It might help you.”

“I doubt it.”

Sherlock shrugged and stood up. “You should give him a chance.”

“What happened to sentiment being a chemical defect found on the losing side?”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “You blocked out your sentiment. And yet I don’t think you feel as though you’ve won.”

Mycroft looked down at his knees. He kept staring at them until Sherlock left the room. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved Greg’s note, written in his scruffy handwriting.

Mycroft unfolded it. _I was yours. I was always going to be. Even if you didn’t want any of the things I wanted, then I was anyway._

Oh Greg, Mycroft thought, slipping the note back into his pocket. Oh, Greg, you always gave far, far too much.

 

DAY ELEVEN

Mycroft did his work at Greg’s bedside. He knew eventually he’d have to leave and return to London. He’d already begun the arrangements to have Greg moved to another hospital. Even if he never woke up…

Mycroft shook his head. He had to stop thinking that way.

He opened up his emails. Life was continuing very much as normal. The man responsible for unleashing the disease had been captured. He was a former Baskerville employee. Mycroft already put new vetting procedures in place.

Sherlock and John were due to return back to London. Anthea had already gone, making sure nothing had gone horribly wrong while Mycroft was missing from the office.

He closed his laptop and looked over at Greg’s body. Even if he did wake up, Mycroft had no idea what he was going to say to him. He knew that he wanted their lives to be together. Perhaps that was enough. 

He stood up, brushing his lips against Greg’s forehead. He wandered out of the room, carrying his laptop. He picked up a cup of weak coffee from the café.

He returned to Greg’s room. It was filled with flowers. Tributes from the Yard, from Mrs Hudson and Molly. Mycroft knew that the longer Greg lay in a coma, the more people would stop sending flowers and messages. He would be as good as dead. Hanging on because of those machines in some sort of limbo.

Mycroft touched Greg’s hand. Greg’s thumb twitched. Mycroft frowned, glancing down at his hand. His forefinger twitched then. “Greg?” Mycroft murmured, standing up. “Greg?”

He stroked Greg’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “It’s alright,” he said. “You’re safe. Come back to us now.”

He watched as Greg’s eyes fluttered open, confusion etched on his face.

“Shh,” Mycroft soothed, a smile spreading over his face. “You’re in hospital and you’re alright.”

Greg reached up with one hand, taking the oxygen mask off his mouth.

“Be careful,” Mycroft said. “Your lungs are very damaged, you may need the oxygen.”

Greg stared up at him, his dark eyes widening. “You did it,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Mycroft nodded, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Yes. Or at least, the scientists did. I imagine there will be a number of MBEs among them, before the year is out.”

“Sherlock…”

“He’s alive. He’s travelling to London today.”

Greg’s breathing grew more laboured. “Mycroft I-”

Mycroft shook his head, gently putting the mask back over Greg’s mouth.

“Breathe,” Mycroft said. “That’s the most important thing. Breathe. And listen.”

Greg’s head turned a little, eyes searching. Mycroft stroked his hair back, gazing down at him. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “But I’m yours, Greg. I want you to know that I’m yours.”

Greg squeezed his hand. Mycroft squeezed back. Greg eyes began to close. It was no wonder, his body must have been exhausted.

“Sleep,” Mycroft whispered, kissing his cheek, knowing there was so much time for everything else. So much time to plan out the rest of their lives together. He touched his lips to Greg's forehead. “Just sleep.”


End file.
